


Weak Ointment

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: After Mustafar, Body Horror, But Hugging Darth Would Kill Him, Darth Vader Needs a Hug, Emotional pain, Gen, Healing, Hurt No Comfort, Manipulation, Manipulative Sheev Palpatine, Medicine, One Shot, Pain, Physical Pain, Reader-Insert, Reader’s Gender is Irrelevant, Suitless Darth Vader, Trauma, discomfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: You are a skilled doctor who has been assigned by the newly-crowned Emperor to tend to his severely-injured apprentice.You know little of your patient, but something about you seems to set him off. Wishing it hadn’t, you merely try to make him comfortable as you tend to his wounds. Your own uneasiness grows, however, as you realize hecan’tbe made comfortable.Wouldn’t this be better work for a droid?
Relationships: Darth Vader/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 124





	Weak Ointment

"Where is the droid?" 

You paused, just having exited the airlock as you heard this: A harsh, raspy, wavering demand from a supine figure laying still on a steel table. He was half-covered by a thin sheet. You knew that he was fresh from a long bacta soak, and he’d clearly been in need of one: The body resting before you appeared, at first glance, to have been completely mutilated. You wondered who had helped lift it onto the table. 

Charred flesh, seeming to want to fall off in places, covered his form— or what was left of it, anyway. It was rough and black, and stretched from his neck all the way down to where the sheet obscured your view. Where his skin did not look like this, it was several different shades of angry crimson. It was even nonexistent in some places, you noted— bearing grotesque swaths of raw muscle. A small number of tiny, smooth patches of almost milky-white indicated his original complexion to you, but those spots were few and far between.

The damage which had been conveyed to you by his Master— the damage was all he _had_ conveyed, really— had been neither underestimated nor misrepresented. 

This was why he was being kept inside of the small, highly-specialized medical chamber in which you met him, now. It had been constructed in short order, you knew, but it was very well-made. It also contained any and all equipment which might have been needed to tend to him, in his current state. You could feel the difference in the air’s pressure, here, as well as smell the harshness of the antiseptics used to keep its surfaces clean.

You were aboard the newly-christened Emperor Palpatine’s personal transport ship, after a turbulent few weeks for everyone in the wake of Order 66. You’d never seen a chamber quite like this one, but you had also never seen injuries quite like the ones adorning the body before you.

To say they were extensive would have been to gravely understate their reach.

"There’s no droid today— only me,” you answered calmly. You had been trained not to react to spectacles of extreme physical damage... although what you saw before you, here, was significantly worse than anything else you had ever witnessed.

"Where did you come from?" He spoke quietly, but directly and very deliberately.

"I'm a doctor,” as you stepped a bit closer. You remained several feet back from this new patient of yours, for now, as he seemed to grow frustrated with you. Doctors, these days, rarely interacted directly with those in their care outside of emergencies. You were well-educated, but your primary jobs had always been to program medical droids, build devices, and interpret data. You thought of yourself as more of an engineer than a doctor, really: Human healers were supposed to be obsolete.

Speaking to patients— let alone touching them— was a rather foreign concept to you, and you did not know why you had to be here.

"That is... _not_ what I asked." The words didn’t seem to come easily. "I asked where you came from, and the answer..." he took a moment to groan in his obvious pain, "...is _the seaside_."

"...Yes. Yes, you’re right.” He was intuitive, you thought. You were, in fact, from a village very near to the sea. "One of the coastal areas of Naboo,” you clarified. You had grown up there, and only moved to the city to complete your medical training after the Invasion. It had been in its aftermath, in fact, that Palpatine had noticed your skills and retained your services. You were not the type to have been phased when he’d revealed to you his true nature— and he mostly ignored you, anyway, when he did not need your assistance. 

You supposed that your presence on his ship at this time meant that he trusted you. 

You’d been brought here, temporarily, to monitor the data gathered during the healing of his badly-burned apprentice: An apprentice about whom you knew very little, but who seemed to know at least one thing about you. You ventured, “Someone told you, then?”

"Nobody—“ he coughed; continued, "—told me." He was looking up at the ceiling; not at you. He finished, “It's the way... you _talk_.”

"Oh. I see." You supposed that you tended toward using an intonation which was common to your people. You had worked at home for so many years that you’d scarcely ever had cause to consider it. It was not an accent you quite shared with the Emperor, so you wondered from where your patient might have recognized it.

"I hate it,” he said, as sharply as he could muster. “It’s... _grating._ ”

"I'll try not to speak,” you offered, a bit taken aback. You had been warned about his mood, but had also expected him to be relatively docile, given the extent of his injuries. Perhaps you’d expected wrong.

He closed his eyes; went quiet: He seemed placated by the promise of your silence, but you could feel contempt in his energy. Despite this, you stepped up beside him— beside the cold, metal table, on which he lay— to begin your work. 

“I’m going to have to touch your skin,” you warned, trying to speak neutrally. You were beginning to feel uncomfortable.

He asked again, without opening his eyes, “ _Where is the droid_?”

You knew he meant the medical droid which would normally have tended to him in the week or so which had passed since his having been hurt. You also knew that you had been instructed, specifically, to come in its stead. You did not know why— the droid could easily have evaluated his healing and applied salves to his wounds. They looked terrible, because they were both extensive, and fairly fresh... however, there was not very much you could have done for them, at this point.

“There is no droid today,” you reiterated, as you sterilized your hands with a solution kept in the room, and proceeded to lean in closely to him. You had been decontaminated before entering the chamber, but you knew that one could never be too careful— another reason this was better work for a machine.

Likely because he did not wish to hear you speak anymore, he was quiet again, now. You wondered, briefly, why he had not been sedated.

You began your examination at the top of his head, where his burns were perhaps the least prominent (this told you he’d likely had a head of hair, at some recent point), and continued downward. You used your eyes to evaluate the extent of the damage as much as you could, but found yourself having to prod him with your fingers to see the insides of his wounds more often than either of you would have liked. 

He writhed, but writhing clearly hurt.

By the time you reached the bottom of his jaw— what seemed to remain of it, anyway— you were beginning to become unsure as to how, precisely, he was still alive... Or, for that matter, why he had been saved. He kept his eyes shut, lids trembling, as you ran your fingers across his face— it was healing as well as could have been expected, you thought, but he would continue to be prone to infection for a long time.

You did not yet know what, precisely, had happened to him— but you were certainly becoming more curious about it. Injuries such as these were fascinating to see up close, even though you touched them with great reluctance.

He took in a pained breath as you examined an especially badly-blistered section of skin running down the side of his neck. Drawing the breath seemed to hurt, too, and he grunted through his teeth as he exhaled. You witnessed his fist— he only had one; his right, and it looked to be made of steel— clench the sheet covering his lower half.

Out of instinct— or more likely your limited training in dealing with actual patients— you said to him gently, “It’ll be over with soon. Try to stay still.”

He opened his eyes again, now, but did not turn his head to look at you— he was likely in too much pain— as he hissed in a low, raspy whisper, “ _Be quiet._ ”

You nearly apologized, but stopped yourself, because that would have required speaking. Instead, you nodded, and went back to your work.

If it was painful for you, as a doctor, to see a human body reduced to a state such as this one, you could only imagine the way the man trapped inside of it felt.

You continued with your inspection of his injuries. You went as quickly as you could without skipping over too much; your primary objective was to simply evaluate the extent of his damage. Again— there was not a lot which could be done to hasten his healing; not from whatever had caused this.

Because you thought it relevant, you asked, “How did this happen?”

His breathing only became more laboured as he clenched his teeth, which looked to hurt him even more. You realized you’d made a mistake. “I’m sorry,” passed your lips before you could stop it— another error.

Your fingers were mired, at this moment, in what was once a solid layer of musculature concealing a rib-cage. It had been reduced, now, to a crumpled and puckered jumble of flesh; it was difficult to tell where the remnants of his skin began or ended. It was disgusting, frankly, but you did not express this. You carefully fingered the edges of the mess instead; were able to determine that it was repairing itself, but very slowly. You wouldn’t have expected anything else.

Again, you weren’t really sure why you needed to be here— this was, indeed, work which could easily (likely even more effectively) have been accomplished by a droid.

You continued anyway. You ignored the sounds he made; refrained from speaking, because he objected so much to your voice. Finally, you came to the edge of the thin fabric covering his lower half; wondered who or what had placed it there for him, because he clearly had not done so himself. Likely it was the same entity which had helped him exit the bacta. If not a droid, then perhaps his Master.

You peered at his face; he had not moved, except to wince and recoil. You looked at his eyes— blue, or something like blue— although they did not look back at you. They did shine brightly in contrast to the rest of his body, however, and the high level of consciousness this betrayed was unsettling to you. No one deserved to be aware of this, you thought. The face below those eyes was so badly burnt that it was difficult to make out, save for what might once have been an elegant nose, and a gnarled set of lips drawn tightly in pain.

You didn’t want to ask, but asking was standard: “May I remove the sheet?”

He tried to gather it himself, in his one remaining hand, but moving his arm to cast it aside proved to be too much for him: A crackling growl escaped his throat, followed by what would have been a scream— if he could have screamed. It sounded more like a breathless wheeze, to you... and it looked excruciating.

“Please don’t move,” you said, still as gently and calmly as you could. You added very quietly, “You’ll only make it worse,” which you would normally not have said to a patient aloud— if you had been in the habit of dealing with patients to begin with.

He seemed to acquiesce; he went still again, and his eyes closed once more. You were relieved at no longer having to see them.

You grasped the sheet where he had tried to do the same, and lifted it gingerly so that it would not drag over his remaining skin. You folded it loosely, and placed it on a tray underneath the table.

You had not been prepared for the sight which met you here, but again, you didn’t react— you knew how to refrain from doing so. In spite of your nonchalance, you noted with some horror that you truly had not seen anything like this before. You wondered, once more, why his Master had saved him: You valued life, as a healer, but its quality was always a consideration. What was this patient’s quality of life? It was difficult to tell how much better he might get, but right now...

“Get... _on_... with it.” You’d been thinking too long. He was running out of energy— fading, and fast. You really couldn’t blame him for wanting you to hurry; you were becoming uneasy, yourself. You didn’t need to be here, and he did not seem to want anything to do with you.

You got on with it.

The first thing you noticed was that his legs were not like legs; rather, they were stumps— virtually melted, they looked more like spent candles than limbs. The same ill shades of black and red which covered the top half of his body had not spared him here, and those patches of smooth alabaster you’d previously noticed were even more sparse. Had he been suspended over an open flame? You could only begin to guess.

You had been told his age, so if not much else, you knew that he was young. You hoped, silently, that in spite of his training, he’d found the time to do what you knew young men typically like to do most before this had happened to him— because he would certainly not be getting the opportunity to do it anymore. You made this particular mental note rather grimly, but filed it away with the rest of the ones you’d taken since beginning this strange farce. You pressed your fingers softly into the edges of very fresh scars, and found that they seemed to be struggling a bit to form, here.

Finally, his knees: This was where his body came to an abrupt end, and there was no more of him left to examine. His legs had not been severed by anything made of metal— if you had to, you’d have guessed an energy blade; a lightsaber. However, the Emperor was the only person you knew who possessed one of those, and this did not look like a training accident. Your curiosity again piqued, you looked up at his face— but his expression was the same: Thinly stoic, as though he wanted to try to scream again, but knew that to do so would only worsen his pain. 

He seemed to be making a valiant attempt at concentration, but he was also clearly not used to being in this state. If he survived, you thought, he might someday become accustomed to it. Based on your observations, he may very well have to.

Finished, at last, with looking him over, you withdrew your hand gratefully and registered from him— almost— a sigh of relief. He still did not open his eyes. You were glad to be done with it, too, but you certainly didn’t say so.

You bent down to reach the tray in which you’d deposited the sheet; picked up a tube: inside was the salve which the medical droid would normally have applied after its inspection. The droid would have converted it into a spray, whereas you would have to apply it thickly with your hands. 

You wondered, again, why you were here.

“I’m going to put medicine on you now,” you said as you stood up, because you knew you should tell him first.

He made a very uncomfortable noise; almost pleading, and when you looked at his face, you noticed his lower lip— what was left of it— trembling. Again, you ignored this. Every attempt you’d made at exercising a good bedside manner, so far, had backfired. Your job, you thought, was to make him more comfortable if you could— not less. 

You coated your hand in a clear, slick substance and began, once again, from the top. The salve was antibacterial, but it was different from bacta— it was intended for use on the most obviously-exposed bits of what should have been part of his interior: Those raging, red patches of corrugated flesh which made you wonder how he was still alive. It was meant to protect them, but you knew that it would be excruciating for him to have it applied.

You did it anyway; as you did, his breathing both quickened, and started to catch in his throat. You tried to work your way down his body quickly; this was, at least, faster than the initial examination. As you ran two wet fingers down a ruby mess at the centre of his chest (a human chest should never have looked this way, you thought), you mumbled to yourself in your discomfort, “Where _is_ the droid?”

He gritted his teeth and almost seemed to sob.

What was it about the way you spoke?

“I’m sorry,” as you continued onto his mangled stomach, and then proceeded to coat a decimated hip— you could almost see bone. Despite that training of yours, you were beginning to feel more than merely uneasy. You felt jittery; panicked, even. You disliked the energy your patient was putting off; in spite of his weak condition, it was very negative, and somehow quickly filling the room.

By the time you had reached the place where his legs ended so suddenly, his entire body was trembling as his lip had been, and you became concerned that he had come into medical distress. You finished with the ointment, and began to reach behind yourself for a tool to monitor his vital signs— but, he stopped you with another noise.

“ _Fine._ ” He almost sputtered, “I... am _fine._ ”

You ceased reaching for the monitor; started, “I’ve finished applying the salve—”

He knew that was the last thing you were to do, so he interrupted you with his weak rasp, “ _Go._ ”

“I’m concerned about—”

Another noise; not an actual word, but its message to you was very clear: He wanted you to leave, and leave immediately.

That was alright with you.

You would try to meet with the Emperor for a moment in the corridor, you decided. There was nothing more you could do for his apprentice, especially since you seemed to make him so upset. That droid definitely would have made a better attendant, and you would try to communicate as much to Palpatine. You still weren’t sure why he had sent you here personally.

“Goodbye,” you said abruptly, as you cleaned your hands off with a towel— which you deposited with his sheet below the table— and turned hastily to leave. On your way out, you looked back at your patient briefly, although you did not know why. He was completely uncovered, now (he had to be, for the additional medicine to work properly), and was presumably waiting for either his Master to enter, or for sleep to come to him— though without sedation, you knew the latter was unlikely.

You even managed to glimpse once more that torturous sheen in his eyes as they opened again; the brightness in them which indicated the totality of his awareness. He could not lift his head, but it seemed that he was straining a bit to see you as you left.

You wished he wouldn’t, because you knew that it would hurt him— and anyway, you found you did not like the way it felt to have him look at you.

What had _happened_ to him?

It didn’t matter, you thought, as you exited through one set of doors and into a tiny airlock. If you could help it, you would not be back. You presumed that the Emperor would want his apprentice to be comfortable, and you clearly were not able to make him feel that way. 

You waited out a short time-delay inside of the airlock, after which the doors leading to the corridor opened for you. As you stepped out, you found that Palpatine must have known you were finished, because he was standing there already— in fact, he seemed to be waiting.

“And how is Darth Vader?” So that was what he was called. 

The expression on the face of Vader’s Master was neutral.

“He is healing, Sir,” you replied, “but his injuries are... severe.” You did not express any of your curiosities to the Emperor; if he had cared to know them, he already would have pulled them from your mind.

With a hint of his own curiosity (it could actually have been amusement— you would reflect on this later), “And his demeanour?”

“He is in pain, Sir. Which brings me to an observation...” You paused; waited for permission to keep speaking.

“Continue,” he urged.

“...I don’t think he needs a doctor, Sir.” Nobody did, these days. Then, carefully, “Was there something wrong with the medical droid today?” You were supposed to interpret its data; not do its job.

“There was nothing wrong with it,” he stated sedately. “I simply thought that my charge might appreciate a bit of... human interaction.” He looked at you; studied your face intently for a moment, during which you remained quiet. Then, he inquired, “Did he appreciate it? .... _Your voice_?”

“I’m sorry, Sir?” You didn’t understand. Were you not here for your skill?

“I thought he might like your voice. It should have sounded... _familiar_ to him.”

Your stomach twisted nervously. “It... did.” You paused; added, “He... hated it, Sir. I don’t think I should—”

With a dismissive wave of a weathered hand, “You’ll tend to him again tomorrow as well.”

“The droid is more effective. It causes him less pain, Sir.”

“You’ll tend to him again tomorrow as well, _Doctor_ ,” he repeated, invoking your title, perhaps, to remind you of his own.

At this you simply nodded, and stepped to the side so that he could walk past you, and into the airlock. You presumed he would be the one to aid his apprentice in resting.

You hoped as much, anyway.

You walked back down the corridor the way you had come, after Palpatine was out of your sight. You tried to suppress the uneasiness which had permeated you since being in that chamber with his apprentice. You did not especially like the way he made you feel. You also very strongly suspected that between your own voice, and the pain inflicted on him by your work, you did not make him much happier than he made you.

The severity of his wounds were not what made you want to stay away, although the work of soothing them could have been done just as well by a machine. It was the energy he gave off— coupled with the harshness of his unfavourable reaction to your speech— which inspired your fervent desire not to return to his chamber.

It was not clear to you what kind of relationship young Vader had with his Master, but you hoped it was such that he could communicate his displeasure with your care. You had no desire to treat him again, in spite of the questions running through your mind— questions like, how had he been injured? Why had he been saved? And what was it about your voice that seemed to make him quiver with rage, to the point of causing himself further pain?

You shook your head as you turned a corner, and decided you would be happier if you didn’t ever find out. You hoped that by the time the Emperor was finished in the healing chamber, he would have changed his mind, and decided to rescind the orders he had given you to work there again the next day.

Where was the droid, indeed.


End file.
